


One Fire

by Karis_Artemisia_Judith



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Awkward Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Making Out, Making Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5100317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karis_Artemisia_Judith/pseuds/Karis_Artemisia_Judith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You just can’t do that. Not that. Not with your mouth…there.”<br/>Two months after the Thaw, Anna's curiosity and enthusiasm lead her to attempt a new step in her physical relationship with Kristoff--but his response pushes them apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Fire

Sunlight was pouring through the diamond panes of the window, spilling across the couch. It was hot on Kristoff’s face and he shut his eyes against the glare. Anna squirmed against him and she was hot too, her hands scorching on his skin as she slid them up, under his shirt. Just two months ago everything in his world had been cold and ice. Now there was warm breath against his neck as Anna pressed kisses to the skin behind his ear, her mouth like a brand against his throat, his collarbone, his chest. She was going to burn him to ashes.

“Anna—” His mouth was as dry as a desert and he panted for air. The princess made an encouraging noise and kissed him. Her small hand guided his larger one to her breast, pressing the soft, yielding curve into his palm. Only the thin fabric of her shift shielded him from the heat of her skin as he hesitantly cupped it, stroked his thumb over the hard peak. Anna hummed and rocked against him. Her fingers were busy again, leaving trails of fire over his stomach, slipping lower. Kristoff hissed as her burning touch found an answering hot hardness. His control slipped and he thrust against her slick palm. He should stop her, he should— _gods her mouth against his belly_ —her mouth—

“ _Anna_ — _!_ ” He jerked away from her, almost knocking her off of the sofa as he sat up and pushed her back at the same time. She bit her lip, tucking her disheveled hair behind her ear, anxious blue eyes on his face.

“Sorry, did I do it wrong? Did it—”

“You can’t do that.” His breathing was rough and the words came out harsh, harsh enough that Anna stiffened.

“I’m sorry, I thought—it didn’t feel good?”

Kristoff ran a hand through his sweaty hair and looked away from her. She’d managed to unfasten most of their clothing with her eager, grasping hands while he’d been distracted with kisses. Anna’s bodice had been abandoned and her blouse hung open off of her elbows. A seductive tumble of red hair fell across creamy, speckled skin where the wide neck of her shift was sliding down her shoulder. With every breath she took he could see the press of her high breasts against the thin linen, could see the shadow of the tight nipples. He scrubbed at his face with a palm.

“It’s not that, Anna, it felt—"  _it felt good, it felt_ so _good, her mouth hot and wet, her tongue caressing_ —"You just can’t do that. Not that. Not with your mouth…there.”

“But…” She blinked and her forehead wrinkled. “Why not? If it didn’t feel bad—”

“Because it…it’s dirty. It’s not something that good women do. Only—” He stopped short. He could see her confusion, her curiosity, the rising questions, but he didn’t know how to explain to her. She was so sweet and innocent—even now, even half undressed with kiss-swollen lips, there was purity in every delicate curve of her face. 

Kristoff fumbled for words. “That’s something that…that women only do if they're…” How to describe those women, with their hardened, sharp faces, their bitter eyes, who followed the men who worked in the lonely camps on the mountain, women who sold themselves over and over until they were worn away under the grasping, grinding hands that soiled them. “Defiled.”

It was the wrong word. Anna’s eyes went wide, and she folded her arms across her chest. “I didn't…I didn’t know,” she whispered.

“I don’t mean that you—” he tried to explain, then stopped and started over. “I know you don’t mean to behave like a—that you aren’t a—”

“A whore,” Anna said flatly. “I know what they’re called.”

“No! I mean, yes, but you—you’re not—I know it’s just that you don’t think before you—”

“I do,” she interrupted. “I do think. I think about you…about this… _all the time_. Don’t you?”

He shut his eyes. He did. It had never been like this before. His body had never spent so much time  _aching_  like this before, his thoughts had never been so uncontrolled. Before Anna there had been the occasional arousal, something to be dealt with, but not…not so entwined with a  _person_. Seeing her, thinking of her, smelling her hair, anything was enough to set him on fire with an ancient, primal flame. He’d done his best to hide it, to protect her from it, but she was so  _curious_ , and when her hands wandered he hadn’t been strong enough to stop her. But there was kissing, and there was touching, and there was…was  _this_.

“No,” he said hoarsely.

“So, you…you’ve never thought of doing something like that to me?”

“No!”

Anna flinched back as if he’d struck her. She fumbled with her blouse, pulling it up and wrapping it around herself to cover her body. “I didn’t know,” she said again. “I thought…”

“It’s not your fault,” he said desperately. “I just…it’s just…” He started to reach out toward her but Anna stood up, stumbling over her loosened clothes in her haste to get away from the couch.

“I need to go,” she said, not looking at him. “I need to get dressed.”

“Anna—”

She ran from him, the door of her dressing room slamming shut behind her.

Kristoff cursed softly and surged to his feet, then realized that his trousers still gaped ridiculously. He fastened them and tugged down his shirt, tucking it in with quick, vicious movements, fumbled his sash back into place. Then he stood blankly in the middle of Anna’s room. The lingering summer warmth was suddenly stifling, suffocating. He couldn’t think.

He yanked a hand roughly through his hair. The slab of painted wood the separated him from the dressing room loomed like a sheer, unscalable cliff face. Kristoff curled and clenched his fingers, hesitating—then he turned and went out.

 

–

 

Anna, slumped against the inside of the dressing room door, heard his footsteps leaving. She heard the latch of her bedroom door click as it was closed. Knees that had been trembling gave out under her and she found herself curled up on the floor, muffling sobs against the heel of her palm, her fingers pressed over her own mouth to keep the sounds contained. She swallowed hard, dragging deep breaths in through her nose.

 _Defiled_. Anna forced her hands down, pressing them flat against the floorboards. She needed to feel something solid under her, because the rest of the world was spinning. She tried to think back, to erase the last few minutes and remember how she had felt just moments before. Kristoff had brought her flowers, a clumsy bouquet of wildflowers that were really weeds, and the sun had been shining on his hair, and he had been looking at her as if…as if…it had made her feel so  _warm_ , that look. So loved. So  _wanted_. She had pulled him down onto the couch beside her, eager to give back, to share the heat that overflowed from her belly, to be…

 _Dirty_. Was that how every touch had felt to him? She’d thought that their stolen moments together, the free exchange of pleasure, was something special. Something they both cherished. Something…something  _sacred_.

Shame burned at the back of her throat, acrid and bitter. She got up shakily, wiping at her face with the back of a hand. The tall, gilded mirror showed her reflection, and Anna wrapped her arms around herself again. Even alone she felt exposed, and somehow raw. She reached past the crisp linen shirts at the front of her wardrobe to pull out a fresh blouse, and buttoned it up to her chin with clumsy fingers.

 

–

 

Kristoff worked. He worked until his hands were raw and cracked, until his muscles knotted in protest, until Sven brayed defiantly and sat down on his haunches, refusing to pull the overloaded sleigh. Kristoff worked until he was too tired to think, because his thoughts tormented him.

He’d spent the night trying to sleep while his mind repeated the scene with Anna over and over—the way the smile had slipped from her lips, the hurt in her eyes. How she’d flinched away from him.

This harvesting trip had been planned for weeks, his last long trip before the end of summer and the onset of autumn’s cool temperatures made the demand for ice drop away. It was why Anna had been so anxious to see him, so eager to pull him into the privacy of her room to say goodbye.

“ _I’ll miss you so much_ ,” she’d murmured, her breath warm on his lips and as intoxicating as mulled wine. He always promised himself that he’d be more careful this time. That he’d remember who she was, and what  _he_  was, and he wouldn’t give into the urges that thrummed through his blood—but it would have been so much easier to tame himself if Anna didn’t press herself so trustingly into his hands, if her own hands didn’t wander with so much innocent curiosity. She had grown up tightly cloistered, with no one to teach her, so how could she know? He was the one who had lived in the world and heard the things men said about women who gave up their virtue so freely.

And Anna’s nature was to be so very  _giving_. She gave him a sled, a title—security, for the first time in his life. Without hesitation she gave him her time, her love, her warmth, her soft, yielding body…and none of them were gifts he had any right to accept. He was taking advantage of her, and he knew it. But when he was with her everything seemed so  _right_. She always felt so natural in his arms, and the hunger that she’d woken in him would overwhelm his objections. It was only later, hunger sated, that he could feel how guilty he was.

Kristoff’s ice saw snapped under his hands.  Shards of ice stung him, and only providence saved him from carving a slice out of his own leg as the abused metal twisted. His bellowed curse echoed off of the mountains.  While Sven snorted fretfully and craned around in his harness to see what was happening, Kristoff flung the shattered saw down. For a moment he was helpless with rage, rage at the flawed tool, the recalcitrant ice, his own clumsy, stupid hands. His fist slammed against the side of the sled.

Pain made an excellent counterpoint to his anger. He snatched off his glove to find that the skin of his knuckles, already raw, had split open. Blood welled over his fingers and he shook the drops off, cursing more softly. And he’d managed to scratch off some of the paint from the side of the sled—the one spot where the lacquer had gotten scraped away, leaving the paint dry and brittle. He’d been planning to apply fresh lacquer, to be careful to preserve the painted design…Kristoff touched the marred pattern lightly. Anna had chosen it herself. He could still hear her eager voice pouring details into his ear as she pointed out the workmanship, the quality, the colors.

“Do you like it?” she had asked, and her eyes had been so hopeful, so anxious to please someone she cared about. She gave him something beautiful, and his carelessness, his rough and dirty hands, left it damaged and sullied.

Kristoff rested his forehead against the cold wood. “I’m sorry,” he said, not sure if he was trying to say it to Anna or if he was apologizing to the inanimate sled. He sighed, shoulders slumping. The memory of Anna’s stricken face filled his mind again. He wanted what was best for her, to protect her from everything, including himself, but…he knew he had been wrong. When he’d gotten up after a sleepless, haunted night, he’d convinced himself that it was better to go ahead with the trip, better to have some distance, to give Anna time to be alone. But this was  _Anna_. He had wanted to run off into the mountains to be alone, but Anna…Anna hated to be alone. And he’d hurt her. He’d made her think that he saw her as…

“ _I know what they’re called_.”

He had to fix it. Kristoff found his gloves and put them on, gathered up the scraps of metal that had been his saw. It was just as well he hadn’t set up a camp during the morning. Sven eyed him anxiously as he climbed onto the seat of the sled.

“Okay, buddy,” Kristoff said. “I need to talk to an expert.”

 

–

 

Anna pushed her damp bangs off of her forehead, sighing loudly. Too loudly—her sister looked up from the stack of ledgers she’d been examining.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Everything’s fine, I just—” Anna looked up, hastily plastering a smile on her lips, but Elsa’s raised eyebrow was uncompromising. “I’m just…it’s too warm in here. This hot weather sticking around is all wrong, it’s supposed to be autumn already.”

“Hm.” The queen lifted a hand and a cool breeze wafted through the air. Anna sighed again, this time with gratitude, and let her head fall back against her chair.

“Thanks.”

“You know, it might help if you weren’t wearing that—” Elsa adapted her gesture to indicate Anna’s blouse for a moment before she went back to fanning cold air towards her sister. The blouse was intended for winter. It was black, made of a thick wool, and covered Anna from her wrists to her chin. In fact it was the most covering garment she owned. It was smothering her, but somehow the thought of wearing less was unbearable.

Anna had never felt so aware of her own skin before. It seemed to prickle, and not just because of the scratchy fabric that was making her overheat. She felt as though everyone were staring at her, as if they could see that she was…defiled. As if they could read all of the sensual thoughts that had ever burned across her mind.

“Too cold?” Her sister’s worried voice made Anna realized that she was hunched up in her chair, arms wrapped around herself.

“No! No, it’s fine, it’s great! I was thinking about…something else.”

About all the men who had ever looked at her, for one thing. Behind the gates there had been just a handful of middle-aged servants, the kitchen boy, a few guards that she rarely ever saw. None of them had really looked at  _her_. Now that the gates were open, Anna had realized that sometimes men stared. She hadn’t thought about it too much—she was a princess, even if she was the spare, and sometimes being a princess meant being on display. It was why patient governesses had spent so much time teaching her to stand up straight, to use the right forks, the right greetings, the right curtsies for all kinds of situations. People looked at her, and she hadn't  _minded_  because there were  _people_ , people who noticed  _her_ , and she wasn’t forgotten or invisible. And yet…

She kept remembering the way some men had looked at her. Not with curiosity or polite interest but…appraisingly. Lingeringly. Now she wondered if they saw what Kristoff had apparently seen. If they saw her as… _As something dirty and soiled._ If even Kristoff looked at her and saw that, what did everyone else see? Did all those people—all those  _men_  look at her and see a…

Her skin crawled as if she could feel their eyes all over her.

How could he? Anna found herself blinking back tears. How could Kristoff, who had carried her so tenderly and kissed her so gently, who  _loved_ her, how could he say those things to her? He’d said it wasn’t her fault, but whose fault was it, exactly?

Anna had Gerda to keep an eye on her wardrobe and make sure that everything was cut appropriately, not too low, not too clinging, the right length, the right number of layers. She had Kai to keep an eye on her deportment, to give her a nudge if she got too loud or to interrupt with a message if some diplomat was letting his hand drift to far down her back. But she didn’t have anyone to teach her about more intimate things, not anymore. Her mother had told her most of the important things, she’d thought, and Anna had read some very interesting books from a forgotten corner of the library. She understood how things sort of…fit together. She knew it wasn’t right to share herself with just anyone, and that it wasn’t acceptable for people to know such things about her (‘What you do in private is  _private_ ,’ her mother had once said). But no one had told her that the feelings that filled her body were  _dirty_  before.

She could feel the shame burning through her despite the cool air, making her skin flush with a heat that felt somehow sour and bitter. It was not at all like the soft golden warmth that she had felt yesterday, the hunger that was almost as delightful in anticipation as it was in fulfillment. That had been like the longing she felt for chocolate, but even headier, and for so many years it had built up in her until at last it bubbled over. Anna felt her stomach twist as she remembered feeling warm lips on hers for the first time, feeling strong arms around her, feeling something like sunlight burst out of her belly and crow  _At last! At last!_  in time with her pounding heart.

How had she been so wrong about everything? What was wrong with her, that even with a man like Kristoff she couldn’t get love right? Now he was gone, and she didn’t know if he’d come back—and if he did come back, she didn’t even know if she could face him. If she wanted to face him.

“Anna?” Elsa had scooted her chair around the table and laid a hand on her sister’s arm. “Are you sure that you're—”

Anna flung her arms around the startled queen and burst into tears on her shoulder.

 

–

 

Kristoff wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, took a deep breath, stepped out of the stables, and nearly ran into the queen.

“Hello, Kristoff,” Elsa said. Her tone was neutral, and she ran an appraising eye over him.

“Sorry, El—your majesty, I mean, I was just—”

“Going to see Anna?”

 He nodded, hesitating.

“Good. She’s in her room. You should go up—I think you know the way.” She walked on, and Kristoff crossed the courtyard to enter the palace. After three flights of winding stairs, his stomach was knotted and cramping. He stared at Anna’s door for a long moment before he knocked.

“Come in.”

Anna was sitting in the window. There was a book lying open on her lap, but her eyes were turned to some distant point on the horizon. She didn’t look around. “Just leave it on the table, please,” she said. "I—"

“Anna?”

The book tumbled to the ground as Anna scrambled to her feet in a flurry of skirts. Her hands clenched together in front of her, then clasped her elbows across her stomach as she stared at him. She looked…she looked okay. Tired, maybe. And apprehensive.

“I thought you had gone to the mountain,” she said finally.

“I did, but—I needed to talk to you.”

“Oh.” It was quiet and noncommittal. “I guess you’d better sit down.” Anna sat herself, in the very corner of the sofa. He perched gingerly on the other end. Silence stretched out between them like a taut rope. He realized that he was waiting for Anna to speak first, to cut the silence decisively, to be the bold one. But she was sitting stiffly and looking down at her hands.

“Anna, I didn't—I didn’t mean to call you a—” He stopped when he saw her flinch. “I’m sorry,” he said helplessly.

“Thank you,” she said. It was his turn to wince at the flatness of her voice. Anna took a breath. “Kristoff—what do you want from me?”

“What?”

She looked up at him with frustration in her eyes. “I don’t understand what you want. I thought I did, but—What do you want me to be?”

“I don’t want you to be anything, I just—want you to be  _Anna_.”

“But you don’t, you think I'm—”

“No! No, Anna, I just…I don’t know. I don’t think that. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She made a soft choked sound and scrubbed her hands over her face. “Upset me? Kristoff—I was upset but it got all drained out of me and now I’m just…I'm  _angry_. I’m angry that you made me feel so…so  _awful_. I’m angry that you’ve apparently been unhappy this whole time and you never _talked_ to me, and you let me think everything was so perfect, and then—”

Kristoff closed his eyes. He felt as if all the air had been kicked out of him. Even though he had been half expecting it, part of him had hoped…hoped what, that Anna would fling herself into his arms and everything would be forgotten?

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. He stood, forcing his hands to unclench as he inhaled. “I—You deserve so much better, Anna. You deserve the world.” Kristoff took a step toward the door, but a tug on his sweater stopped him. He looked over his shoulder. Anna had scrambled to her feet and grabbed a fistful of the knitted fabric.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

“I—You—” he floundered. “You said you were still angry.”

“And so you decided to look tragic and walk away? Kristoff, you…you big dummy. I said I was angry—well, more hurt than angry, but—I didn’t say I wouldn’t forgive you. ”

He twisted around, forcing Anna to let go of his sweater.  Her hand ended up against his side, and he covered it with one of his own, touching her for the first time. She didn’t pull away. Kristoff lifted his other hand slowly, and brushed a tentative fingertip across her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Anna,” he whispered. “I never thought—I never saw you as—Anna, it was myself that I blamed, I—”

She leaned back to frown at him. “You thought that I was an innocent baby who didn’t understand what I was doing. No, don’t!” Her hands fisted in the fabric of his sweater again as he started to back away.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Kristoff…” Her forehead dropped down to rest against his chest for a moment. “Let’s sit down again,” she said, drawing him back to the couch. This time she sat beside him, her knee touching his.

“I don’t think you’re a baby,” he blurted out, and Anna smiled. Kristoff took a deep breath. “Anna, it’s just…I’ve never felt the way I do with you. Never. These feelings—the things I find myself imagining, the things I want to do….” He could feel himself blushing and he had to look away from Anna’s wide eyes. But he did catch the pink in her own cheeks, and the start of a smile on her lips. It gave him the courage to go on. “I didn’t understand,” Kristoff said softly. “All I knew about…about the physical things, none of it had anything to do with love. It was all vulgar and…and bitter. I never wanted anything to do with it, until I met you, and suddenly—”

“I didn’t know.” Anna reached up to push the hair back from his forehead and Kristoff closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. “I think everyone must be different, because I was talking to Elsa—” His eyes flew open and his expression made Anna bite at her lip to control a giggle. “Not about you! Well not about anything specific, more about what I was feeling, and she said that she’s never felt…urges, and she didn’t really understand what I was talking about. Maybe she’s more like you, but…Kristoff, I—it wasn’t like that for me. I’ve felt these things—wanted things—for years, but it I never had anyone to share myself with, until you, and I was so impatient to share  _everything_ , I didn’t think that you might not want—”

“But I do,” he said quickly. He cupped her face in his hands, looking into her eyes. “I want everything with you, Anna. I…” He laughed, a little shakily. “I got a little advice from my family too.  _Not_  anything specific, and not to  _all_  of them, but…they made me realize that what you and I do together…it’s different. That as long as it’s what we both want, if it’s done in trust, it could never be…degrading, or dirty, and I never meant to make you feel that it was, Anna, never.” His thumb stroked over her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

She covered his hands with hers. “I’m sorry, too. I pushed you, when you weren’t ready.” Anna smiled ruefully. “I’ve got to stop doing that, people keep running off to the mountain when I do. I thought—” She stopped, then looked down. “I thought it meant you didn’t want me, because of…”

“No! Anna—gods, Anna, I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

Suddenly Anna was filling his arms, her skirts getting crushed between them as she straddled his lap, her fingers tangling in his hair as her mouth pressed hungrily to his lips. He barely had time to react at all, to revel in her kiss, before she was pulling back with scarlet cheeks.

“Sorry,” she panted, “sorry, I’m doing it again. Rushing things.”

“Anna…” He was running out of words, and his voice was husky and dry in his throat. But his silence was making Anna’s blush darken, making her fold her arms around herself and duck her chin down against her collar. How was she breathing in that high-necked, strangling thing? He ran a hesitant fingertip across her shoulder, touching the tiny buttons at her throat.

“Were you cold?” he asked.

“No! No, I’m suffocating, I just…wanted to be covered. I never thought before, that men might look at me, and think…”

“Gods, Anna, I—” Her fingers covered his lips.

“Don’t say you’re sorry again, it’s okay. Really.”

He looked thoughtfully at the buttons. “May I?” he said quietly.

“Please,” Anna said.

Kristoff had never undressed her before—it had always been Anna who tugged and tore at their clothing, curious and anxious to see more, feel more—and the small jet buttons were difficult for his large fingers, but Anna sighed with relief as the collar parted. Her hand tugged questioningly at his sweater, and Kristoff leaned back from her to let her pull it over his head before his hands went back to her clothing. There were so many  _layers_ , but Anna guided him to the tiny hooks and buttons, and when she was finally free of the black shirt Kristoff paused to look at her. The late evening sunlight was pouring through the windows—not the hot, yellow sun of yesterday’s afternoon, but a rich and languid glow that enveloped her. She still wore her shift, and the golden light shone through the thin cotton, outlining Anna in a brilliant halo. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was. How much he loved her. But his throat was utterly dry.  _Show her, then_.

“Anna—” She came eagerly into his arms, all fire and heat, but this time he wasn’t burned. Her skin was as soft as velvet under his fingers. His hand slipped up her back to dig into her hair, cradling her head. “Anna, will you kiss me again?”

**Author's Note:**

> Fire ever doth aspire,  
> And makes all like itself, turns all to fire,  
> But ends in ashes ; which these cannot do,  
> For none of these is fuel, but fire too.  
> This is joy’s bonfire, then, where love’s strong arts  
> Make of so noble individual parts  
> One fire of four inflaming eyes, and of two loving hearts. 
> 
> –John Donne, excerpt from Eclogue: at the Marriage of the Earl of Somerset


End file.
